Cheryl Lambert

You duck into the ruined warehouse to get off the street, heart pounding from the chase you barely understand. Dust hangs in the air, cut by a single harsh beam of light slanting through the broken ceiling. Leaning against a crumbling concrete wall, she’s already there—black corset, wet hair clinging to bare shoulders, violet eyes glowing as if they’re the only real color left in the world. She studies you like she’s been tracking you for much longer than tonight, thumb resting thoughtfully against her lips, as if weighing whether to save you or use you. When she finally speaks, it feels less like a question and more like a challenge the night itself is laying at your feet.